Chapter 36: Telling Ghost Stories to Brats

"My wife has been busy at home preparing a modest meal. Although we lack the delicacies of the mountains and seas, it carries a unique rural flavor..."

The village head spoke with great warmth and courtesy.

"Master, what do you think?" Uncle Fu, feeling somewhat moved, glanced at the scorching sun hanging high in the sky before speaking cautiously.

Fan Jin waved his hand. "We set out from the city this morning and have brought plenty of dry rations, so we won't trouble your family further."

Having said this, he looked toward the villagers dressed in coarse hempen clothes. "Let us proceed with collecting the rent. I trust everyone has been waiting for a long time; the sooner we finish, the sooner everyone can return home for their midday meal."

Upon hearing this, the villagers gazed at him timidly. A few seemed to want to speak but ultimately remained silent.

The village head, hearing the blunt refusal, assumed that as a scholar-official, the gentleman likely looked down upon his simple fare and was more concerned with the collection. Realizing this, he did not press the invitation further and immediately ordered a young man to step forward and assist with the logistics, fearing someone might try to cut corners and cause a greater loss.

Fan Jin called Uncle Fu to his side and instructed him to preside over the proceedings, adding a final, firm directive: "Do not employ the 'kicking the grain measure' tactic used by the government offices. Let it be exactly as it should be, no more and no less!"

The so-called "kicking the grain measure" involved officials, while receiving public grain, kicking the wooden bushel container hard so that the grain at the top would spill over while the container remained upright. The spilled grain was then euphemistically labeled as "wastage" and pocketed by the officials. The commoners ended up giving more grain, yet it never reached the imperial treasury; it simply lined the pockets of the corrupt.

Uncle Fu, thinking his master was kind and sympathetic to the downtrodden, replied quickly, "Rest assured, Master. I would never stoop to such sordid deeds and tarnish your reputation!"

"Very well, proceed."

Tax collection is an art, much like plucking a goose: one seeks to pluck the most feathers while hearing the fewest 'honks.' It is also a mandatory lesson for newly appointed officials, many of whom begin practicing these 'internal arts' long before taking office, aiming for speed, precision, and efficiency. One kick is meant to dislodge as much grain as possible without knocking the measure over, as doing so would require refilling it, inevitably leading to complaints.

In fact, throughout the Ming Dynasty, the practice of "kicking the grain measure" was never officially sanctioned; it remained an unspoken rule established by local authorities. The root cause was that Ming officials felt they were simply too poor.

Of course, even Fan Jin had to admit that the salaries of the Ming Dynasty were indeed somewhat low. They were adequate for maintaining the basic needs of an official's immediate family, but who doesn't have a few poor relatives? When a man achieves success, his entire household is supposed to benefit—could he really ignore those impoverished kin? Furthermore, running an office requires staff and a team of advisors to provide counsel, and the cost of maintaining such a group is no small sum.

The scene of rent collection was bustling. Because of his instructions, the usual "kicking" did not take place, and the atmosphere remained relatively harmonious. Older children watched with reluctance as their family's grain was handed over, while the younger ones, still oblivious to such worries, gathered in small groups, some boasting about the vigor of the fat grasshoppers they had caught.

"Master, shall we have something to eat to fill your stomach?" the servant, A-Zhong, asked, holding a food box.

Fan Jin shook his head. "Bring a box of pastries."

The servant obeyed. Carrying the pastries, Fan Jin approached slowly, initially startling the little ones.

"M-Master, greetings!" Several children jumped up at once, dutifully clasping their hands behind their backs and bowing their heads low. Their small hands twisted together behind them, betraying their anxiety.

"Don't be nervous. I only wish to ask you a few things."

He opened the food box, revealing the delicate, exquisite pastries inside. "These are famous pastries from the Cui Xiang Pavilion in the city. How about it? Would you like some?"

No one answered, but suddenly a chorus of frantic gulping could be heard.

"Before I ask my questions, let me tell you a story so you can all relax."

Upon hearing the word 'story,' the faces of these young, mischievous children immediately changed. They tilted their heads, looking genuinely interested. Living in Zuo Family Village, these children—and even their parents—had seen very little of the world. They mostly heard gossip about neighbors, and their knowledge of the outside world was purely hearsay. In such circumstances, stories were their primary way of understanding the world. Yet, the adults were not eloquent; they spent their lives facing the yellow earth and sky, repeating the same few dry facts over and over until the children were utterly bored.

Therefore, the mere mention of a story, even before it began, piqued their curiosity.

There was one 'champion of bravado,' a sturdier boy who puffed out his chest, covered his ears, and said dismissively, "What a lousy story. I won't listen, I won't listen! If I'm going to listen, I'll listen to my second brother."

Despite his words, his feet remained rooted to the spot, and his eyes kept glancing greedily at the food box.

"The story I am going to tell is about an embroidered shoe."

Fan Jin pondered for a moment. He had initially thought of telling them a story about a monkey, but considering the limited time, he chose a ghost story instead. Fan Jin considered himself quite adept at storytelling; after only a short passage, he had the group of rascals trembling with fear. Even in broad daylight, they felt a chilling aura. This novel ghost story was far more frightening than the ones their elders told to scare them.

"Sigh, and here I thought you were all very brave!" Fan Jin feigned disappointment while weighing the food box in his hands. He picked up a pastry and popped it into his mouth, the fragrance wafting through the air.

"Keep going!" the boy who had covered his ears gritted his teeth and said, prompting a chorus of agreement from the others.

Fan Jin glanced at them, thinking to himself that they were truly weak-willed but eager to play. "Very well, since it's halfway through, I shall finish it for you."

"However, if anyone wets their pants from fear, don't go crying to your parents!"

"We aren't three-year-olds; how could we wet our pants..." Driven by curiosity and the temptation of the exquisite pastries, many of the children gritted their teeth to hold on.

Suddenly, a soft, muffled voice piped up: "Right, I'm not three years old. I'm exactly two and a half!"

Hearing this, several children looked down to see a wet patch on the boy's trousers. They immediately turned away in unison, their faces filled with disdain, acting as if they didn't know him at all.